


On the Nail

by vyris



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Timeline, Character Development, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Not really slow burn since they have sex in the second chapter?, POV Minor Character, Rare Pairings, Slow Build, Unhealthy Relationships, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyris/pseuds/vyris
Summary: A multi-chapter saga about the complicated relationship between Brian Zeller and Freddie Lounds as it develops from their first encounter when she "used" him for her article on Will Graham all the way through the events of Season 2 (if I can get that far, here's hoping).





	1. Chapter 1

IN SESSION

DR. BARNUM: Alright. So, Brian, how’ve you been since I last saw you?

BRIAN: Um, pretty good, actually. Nothing new much, but I’m feeling alright these days.

DR. BARNUM: Good. That’s good to hear. So, what would you like to talk about today?

BRIAN: Um… I don’t know that there’s much to talk about. Not much going wrong lately for me.

DR. BARNUM: You don’t only have to talk about things that are going wrong in therapy. You can talk about good things, too.

BRIAN: Well, not much good either. (laughs) I mean… it’s not good, not bad. Life has been pretty much neutral, y’know. Gray. Which is better than bad, I mean.

DR. BARNUM: Right. Well, you know, whatever’s on your mind. How about your goals? How’s your progress on them?

BRIAN: Oh, yeah. Actually I have been keeping up with my daily jogging, surprisingly. I think I’m starting to really ingrain the habit. It’s good stress-relief.

DR. BARNUM: Exercise eventually becomes reinforcing itself if you keep with it. Glad to hear that. What about your substance use?

BRIAN: Uh… (chuckles) That still needs some work. I’ve been cutting back—especially on alcohol and pot. But it’s harder with the others.

DR. BARNUM: A little progress is still progress. Don’t underestimate it.

BRIAN: Right, yeah. I, uh… Well… I guess I should tell you about this, though.

DR. BARNUM: If you want.

BRIAN: I, um… did… have a relapse… of some sort.

DR. BARNUM: On what?

BRIAN: … Her.

DR. BARNUM: Ah. That Freddie woman, yes?

BRIAN: Yeah.

DR. BARNUM: Okay. And how do you feel about that?

BRIAN: Like a fucking idiot. Like I’ll never fucking learn.

DR. BARNUM: People can be just as addictive as drugs. Sometimes even more so. I see it often.

BRIAN: Yeah, but it’s not like I’m deluded. I don’t see her through rose-colored glasses. I know that she’s bad for me. There’s no doubt about that.

DR. BARNUM: So is the case for many heroin and meth addicts. The reward of the high is more potent to them than the consequences of the addiction. Somehow, the benefits this woman offers are more effective on you than the drawbacks.

BRIAN: But I don’t understand how. Like… am I really that overcome by lust? I mean, it is really good… the sex. But it doesn’t justify all the shit she puts me through.

DR. BARNUM: Is it just lust? You think you could be overcome with love, too?

BRIAN: No… no. I don’t love her.

DR. BARNUM: Are you sure?

BRIAN: … No.

DR. BARNUM: People can be extremely tolerant and forgiving of pain when it comes to love, to a fault sometimes.

(silence)

DR. BARNUM: Have you heard of the dog on a nail story?

BRIAN: What? No.

DR. BARNUM: Okay. So there’s this man walking down the street and he sees an old man on his front porch and a dog sitting beside him. The dog is whimpering and whining. The man asks the old man, “What’s wrong with your dog?” And the old man replies, “He’s sitting on a nail.” The man says, “Sitting on a nail? Well, why doesn’t he get off it?” The old man says, “It doesn’t hurt enough yet.”

BRIAN: … Huh. Weird story, but I think I get the message.

DR. BARNUM: I have faith that once you realize you’ve endured enough pain, you’ll get off the nail that is this Freddie. I just hope that it’s sooner rather than later.  
BRIAN: Yeah. Me too.

 

NINE MONTHS EARLIER

 

“Find any shiitakes?” Katz’s quip drew a snigger from Zeller and an exasperated groan from Price. The scene was as laughable as it was morbid and jokes had to be made. After carefully stepping out of the “mushroom garden”, Zeller looked through the pictures on the Nixon camera and clicked his tongue.

“Not seeing any,” he admitted in a disappointed tone. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and find some hallucinogens.” Katz grinned while Price shook his head with a grimace and said, “What ever happened to just stabbing or shooting someone? I miss those days. What, is committing murder just not exciting enough? Does it have to be spiced up now?”

“All those slasher movies and _Saw_ sequels and it’s like killers are in competition for who can make the most fucked up crime scene,” said Zeller, curling his lip at a closeup of one of the victim’s decomposed face. Katz removed one of her gloves and raised her index finger in a matter-of-fact way, saying, “‘Movies don’t create psychos. Movies make psychos more creative.’” Zeller smirked. “ _Scream_. Classic.” He looked up from the camera at Jack Crawford’s new addition to the team standing before the scene and the agent’s smile dropped. The man, Will Graham, was standing as still as a statue, his eyes closed, who knows what going on behind those eyelids. “What do you suppose is the scientific basis for what that guy’s doing over there?”

“Don’t know,” said Price, giving a disinterested glance over at Graham. “But Jack seems to be a fan.”

“If you trust Jack’s judgement, you could try to trust his,” Katz suggested. That only made Zeller’s sneer deepen. He normally did respect Crawford’s opinion, but he’d had an uneasy feeling about Graham the moment he first saw him in Elise Nichols’ bedroom. Even more so when he jumped to the conclusion that Garret Jacob Hobbs was cannibalizing his victims from the fact he’d returned the girl’s liver after he cut it out. There was something so off about the man.

“He couldn’t even pass the FBI’s screening tests,” Zeller mumbled. “What does that tell you about how trustworthy he is?” Katz gave him a skeptical frown and opened her mouth to say something, but a bustle of activity made all three redirect their attention to the scene.

“Holy shit, one’s still alive,” someone said and that was all the cue the agents needed to rush over. Zeller’s hand went to his head in disbelief. It was a ghastly sight, one that would revisit his mind long after the case was closed. The man was wheezing hoarsely through yellow teeth that were entirely exposed, his lips having been torn from his mouth when the duct tape was removed. The skin on his face that wasn’t rotted away or caked in dirt was as gray as cement. Brian Zeller had been to hundreds of crime scenes and seen tons of shit, but never before had he seen a victim come back to life.

The agents watched with morbid awe as the paramedics painstakingly lifted the man--mushrooms and all--from his shallow grave and onto the stretcher. Price shook his head and said, “You almost feel like the poor bastard would be better off dead.” The bulbous fungi on the man’s abdomen wobbled as the stretcher was pushed toward the ambulance. Zeller sighed and murmured, “Not almost.” If there was any mercy left in this world, hopefully the man would be dead before the end of the day.

After discarding his gloves, Zeller shoved his cold hands into his jacket pockets. It was unusually chilly for a mid-September afternoon. Everyone was packing up and eager to head back to their respective stations. He was doing the same when his eyes caught a deep shade of red amidst a nearby crowd of onlookers and he was still a moment. Right behind the police tape was a red-headed woman in a dark green tweed coat, a curious expression on her lovely face as she peered at the scene. Her scarlet hair was in tight curls, standing out in volume and color against the yellow and green of the autumn forest.

He’d been too preoccupied with staring at her to notice that he’d been caught. Her big, deep set eyes were now looking back at him, as curious as ever. Zeller looked away a second too late to be unnoticeable, turning his back to her as well, as if that helped anything. Smooth, asshole, he thought to himself with a grimace. It was so like him to be distracted from the task at hand by a pretty woman. But now that he’d sufficiently embarrassed himself, he could refocus on the task.

After hauling the last equipment bag in the back of the van, he shut both the back doors and leaned back against them for a moment, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. He needed a dose of caffeine. Or a cigarette. When he took his hand from his eyes, there suddenly in front of him was the red-headed woman from before, a soft smile on her dark pink lips. Zeller drew in a sharp breath and blinked, even more transfixed with the image of the woman now that she was so close. A pang of dread hit him as he expected her to chew him out for ogling her, but her pleasant expression gave doubt to that.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to interfere,” she said with a meek grin. “I was just wondering… is that man who woke up… is he going to live?” Her eyes were wide and, now that he was close enough to see, very blue.

“Uh, couldn’t say,” Zeller replied, standing up straight. “It doesn’t look good for him, as far as I can see.”

“God, how awful.” She crossed her arms and looked off to other vehicles taking off. “Never thought something so bad could happen in such an unassuming area.”

“You from around here?”

“No, I’m just visiting. Although this is a pretty big coincidence for why I’m here.”

Zeller tilted his head inquisitively. “Why’s that?” He really shouldn’t be conversing with civilians on the clock, but this woman had more than captured his interest.

“I’m working on a novel. A crime novel. Came out to the rural area to get some space to breathe and write in peace, when wouldn’t you know it--a murder happens right here. Murders, by the looks of it.”

“That is a coincidence.” Zeller glanced over his shoulder at the other agents and noticed Katz giving him the stink eye. He was about to excuse himself from the woman when, probably sensing this, she interjected, “I know you’re busy right now, but I was wondering if you’d have any time after this for a casual interview maybe? See, I have an FBI character in my novel, but I’ve never met an FBI agent before and I’d love to pick your brain about your work."

Aside from court proceedings, Zeller had never been interviewed before and he had to admit that the prospect was intriguing, although there was also some hesitation. As if reading his mind again, she added, “Not about this case. Just… general aspects of your work. Past cases. That sort of thing.” He had to end this interaction soon before Crawford got on his ass, so he gave in.

“Sure. Sounds good. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be off soon enough. How can I reach you?” As if on cue, she plucked a scrap of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to him, saying, “Gimme a call. Name’s Sofia, by the way.”

“Special Agent Brian Zeller,” he replied with a smile. She gave an even bigger one.

“Nice to meet you, Agent Zeller. Look forward to seeing you later.”

“Ditto. You’ll be hearing from me.” With another lovely smile, she turned and he took a moment to watch her red curls bounce as she walked away. Finally, he returned to the others, a wide grin splayed across his face.

“What was that about?” asked Katz with a raised brow. “Meet a murder groupie?”

“I just got a date tonight,” Zeller replied in a singsong voice. Price guffawed, “How the hell do you get a date at a crime scene?”

“I’m just that good,” he said. “Although technically it would be an interview. She’s a novelist and she wants to pick my brain about the FBI. But I bet I can turn it into a date.”

“That poor woman,” Katz sighed.

“Sure she wouldn’t want someone with fifteen years more experience?” Price asked.

Zeller rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you assholes just be happy for me?”

The other two chuckled to themselves. Whatever, they couldn’t bring him down even if they tried their hardest. This day had made a sudden and welcome turn for the better.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something about her lips that was captivating and he found himself staring at them more than a few times during the evening. They were so uniquely defined, especially her upper lip. Her sharp cupid’s bow shaped it like a wide “M” above her bottom lip. And her deep blue eyes were just as entrancing, if not haunting. They were eyes that knew a lot. Eyes that would not be easily fooled. He felt a little uneasy under the intense gaze, a little vulnerable, as if she could see right into his skull. But at the same time, he also couldn’t look away.

They were sharing a corner booth that was in a quiet area of the lounge. She’d been filling him with details about her novel that he was only half-grasping as he was admiring her. Simultaneously, he was trying to identify the rock song playing in the background of the bar that was mostly muffled by the din of the patrons’ chatter. After listening intently for a few moments, he recognized it to be “Beautiful Day” by U2. He redirected his listening back to Sofia, just in time to miss half of a question she was asking him.

“Sorry, what was that? It’s a little loud in here.”

“What do you find most challenging about your work?” she repeated.

“Besides the fact that people won’t stop committing really bad crimes?” he asked before sipping his beer. She offered a humored smile. “Well,” he continued, “as you can imagine, there’s a lot of politics involved. At the office and federal level. There’s lots of cogs in the bureaucracy, and you have to learn how to navigate through them. And there’s a ton of pressure to do things right and by the book. A lot of eyes on you from all levels.” She gave an understanding nod, stirring her cocktail with a neon green straw. “And, of course, there are colleagues that can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“Any pain in the ass colleagues lately?” she asked with some amusement and sipped her cocktail. Zeller rubbed his stubbly cheek and chuckled as one instantly came to mind.

“As a matter of fact, yeah. New guy. Some consultant profiler--Graham. I guess he’s able to see the crime through the killer’s eyes.” The last part was said with cynical exaggeration followed by a shrug. “Or that’s what I heard. The guy’s super aloof. Doesn’t talk unless he has to. And that’s usually to himself. I don’t know. Anyone who claims to think like a killer probably doesn’t have all his shit together upstairs.”

“Interesting,” she hummed, having leaned in closer as he spoke. “What about his work? Is it valuable?”

He rolled his eyes and shrugged again. “He made one lucky guess in our last case that lead us to the murderer. Once. But that’s what profiling is, it’s guesswork. And yeah, there’s psychology behind it, but that’s a soft science in of itself. It’s definitely not all it’s cracked up to be. It doesn't qualify as evidence and it doesn’t put criminals away. It’s a step above a psychic’s readings, in my opinion. At best, it can be used as a filter to narrow the search of possible suspects. That is if it’s accurate, which it isn’t always.”

“Well, Agent Zeller…”

“Call me Brian.”

Her eyes flicked up and she smirked as she acquiesced. “Well, Brian… some might say that you’re biased since you do the forensic work.”

He snorted softly. “Everyone should be biased in favor of forensic evidence. That’s what courts allow, that’s what juries believe, and that’s what gets convictions.”

“What about when there is no forensic evidence? Like with the Chesapeake Ripper?”

A flinch happened across his face at the mention of that name and he quickly brought his bottle to his lips, allowing extra time to come up with a reasonable response. Clearing his throat, he began, “Well, uh… in occasional cases where there’s no forensic evidence, there’s usually other sources of evidence. Eyewitnesses. Camera footage. A link between the killer and the victim or a paper trail--or an electronic trail, nowadays. But then… every once in a blue moon, you’ll get someone like the Chesapeake Ripper.” He paused for effect and she rose her eyebrows in interest. “Where there is none of that. It’s rare, but not impossible. And profilers have been no help either. There’s been dozens of profiles on the Ripper, and they’ve lead nowhere. All we can hope is that this two year dry spell means the bastard is dead or in prison.”

She stared at him a moment before raising her glass and saying, “Cheers to that. He smiled and lifted his bottle to clink with hers. Their gazes locked as they each took a sip from their respective drinks. Zeller wished he could see what was going on behind those eyes of hers the way he felt she could with his.

“You know…” she said slowly, setting down her glass, “I _did_ notice.”

“Notice what?”

“That you were staring at me.”

He held his breath a moment and watched her, but there was nothing in those half-lidded eyes or simpering lips that suggested displeasure. He released the breath as he said, “Hard not to. You were like a rose in the desert.” Her smile widened as she slid in close to him, placing her hand on his upper thigh.

“Another thing you should know,” she murmured, pressing into his side and lifting her face to his. “There is no FBI agent in my book.” Her hand moved to his crotch and his arm went around her waist. His lips had almost touched hers when she brought a manicured finger in between their mouths and looked into his eyes. “My hotel is close. Let’s go there.”

“Okay,” he whispered against her finger. Her perfect lips parted in a grin and she brushed them against his, giving his crotch a teasing squeeze.

They couldn’t get to the car fast enough.

 

Brian Zeller had been with many women in his life--more than he was willing to admit outright--but none of them had been like this woman. From the moment that they entered her hotel room, she was in control… and she wasn’t subtle about it either. Fingers gripping his shirt as her mouth pressed into his, pushing him further into the room and then shoving him onto the bed. He barely had enough time to sit up before she was on him again, straddling his lap, taking his lips with hers again. It was alarming for Zeller, but exciting all the same; and he graciously relinquished the upper hand.

His shirt came off swiftly and he struggled to get out of his trousers from under her while she pulled her blouse up and over her head, then unzipping her skirt and doing the same. The ceiling light had been turned on, allowing him to see Sofia’s lithe body atop him, her smooth milky white skin, and black lace lingerie concealing the precious parts. It was then that he thanked his lucky stars that this woman decided that he would be worth her time. He was average at best, and this woman was so far above average.

One hand resting on the small of her back and the other squeezing her breast, he kissed and sucked at her neck heartily. Her skin flushed in the places he nipped and sucked at. She flipped her red curls back and sighed, humming as she grinded down on his erection, her nails pinching into his shoulders. The hand on her back went to her bra clasp which she responded immediately with a sharp slap to his arm. He paused and looked up at her in confusion, but there was no anger in her expression. Only intent. Holding his gaze in hers, she guided his hands down to her hips and over the waistline of her undies. He continued staring into her eyes as he hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it down, and she helped herself out of it.

There needn’t be any words exchanged. All that needed to be said was spoken through the contact between their eyes and bodies. She pressed him back into the bed as she crawled up his body, stopping when her knees were on either side of his head. He rested his hands on her thighs and opened his mouth to receive her. She rolled her hips slow to begin with and he dragged his tongue over her soaking vulva, lapping up every warm drop. She moaned happily, one fist clutched in her hair and her other hand playing with her breast. He was flicking his tongue over her clit, making her legs twitch and her breaths catch. She rocked harder against his mouth, grinding her clit down on his tongue, while he just tried to keep up with her.

Before long, she came with a series of gasps and groans, arching her back, her chest heaving with shuddering breaths. He could feel her sex pulsate around his mouth and her thighs trembled slightly on either side of him. His tongue was sore from all the work, but he was satisfied with the result. She spent the rest of the evening on top of him as well, allowing him only as much as thrusting up into her as she rode him. Once he came, she climbed off of him and went into the bathroom to clean herself up. He was left sprawled on the bed, staring up at the white ceiling tiles offset by the earthly stripes of the wallpaper.

Most one night stands left him feeling spent and empty. That’s when he knew they were only one night stands--when he didn’t care whether he saw the other again or not, or whether they stayed the night or not. But this was not like one of those nights. His head lulled to the side and he stared at the ajar bathroom door, watching her shadow move over the outline of light, hearing the hiss of the shower start. He wished she would come back to bed, wished she would kiss him, wished she would be his little spoon, wished he could bury his face in her hair. She was an unexpected break in the gruesome monotony of his life, and he craved more of her.

The soft clicking of nails on keyboard was the first thing he heard as he eased out of slumber, as smoothly as he had drifted earlier. He opened his eyes and, after a moment of confusion, remembered where he was. Raising his head, he saw Sofia sitting at the table and typing away at her laptop, wearing nothing but a silk kimono robe. Her hair was significantly longer with her tight curls dampened.

“Writing an FBI agent into your novel?” he croaked as he sat up with a stretch.

“Perhaps,” she replied halfheartedly, keeping her attention in front of her. “In the next one.” He smirked, then threw his legs over the bed and pulled himself up. He went over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning down and kissing her neck. Her focus seemed not to be fazed by the way she maintained the quick pace of her keystrokes.

“I’d be happy to proofread, if you want.” He looked over her shoulder at the screen and she immediately lowered the monitor, saying, “I have an editor for that.” She turned to him with a sly smile. “Don’t you have work tomorrow morning, Agent Zeller? Gotta catch that mushroom killer.”

“Ah, yeah,” he mumbled, straightening up with another stretch. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eleven.”

“Oh, shit.” Pulling away from her, he began searching for his clothes on the floor and putting them on as he found them. It was almost a two hour drive back to Quantico and his workday started at eight. Not that working on little sleep was anything new for him, but he’d like to get five hours in at least. As he was fixing his belt around him, he peered at Sofia still typing away and asked, “You, uh... gonna be staying in town long or…?”

“I’ll be moving from town to town, keeping to Maryland and neighboring states.”

“Cool. ‘Cause I’m in Quantico if you’re ever in the area and… wanna get together.” She turned to him and gave him a once over as he buttoned his shirt, then said, “I have your number.”

“And I have yours.” Pulling on his coat, he stared at the back of her head as he contemplated giving her a parting kiss. Certainly he wanted to, but she seemed busy with her writing and he was worried it may come off as too needy. In the end, he decided to play it cool. Opening the door, he took a step out and looked back with a smirk, saying, “See ya around.”

“See ya,” she replied with one last flirty glance. Closing the door behind him, he gave a sigh that turned into a shudder when the cold night air enveloped him. He hurried across the landing and down the stairs toward the parking lot. If he had it his way, he would be warm in bed with Sofia, their limbs intertwined under the covers, the closeness eventually leading to more sex. He thought about it all on the long and lonely drive home, imagining far-reaching romantic and sexual scenarios they could potentially share. It was like being a teenager again with his first love and getting way too far ahead and way too excited for what was to come, even if it could be nothing. It was more likely to be nothing. But for tonight, Zeller decided to his imagination run wild guiltlessly for once.

 

It was just past midnight when Freddie Lounds uploaded her latest article to her website. “It Takes One To Know One” in red caps across the homepage--the general public will appreciate the cliché--along with a couple shots of the subject, Will Graham. She was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to get the agent to leak information to her. She barely had to press on the topic of Graham before Zeller spouted off like a loose firehose. He’d had absolutely no suspicion about her ulterior motives; he was too entranced by her. Being attractive certainly did have its perks in this line of work.

The article would be all the rage in the true crime forums by tomorrow morning, and would likely find its way to the FBI’s attention. Not that they could do a damn thing about it--freedom of speech and all. It would probably be discovered by Agent Zeller, too, for which she held zero guilt. It wasn’t like it was personal. She had bills to pay and a reputation to maintain, and criminal profiling was a very sexy topic to her audience.

Shutting her laptop, she reached over to her purse and pulled out her phone. She went onto the Burner app, which allowed her phone to have multiple phone numbers which she can discard at any time. Essentially the same as having burner phones, but this way is more cheap and convenient. She located the phone number she gave to Brian Zeller and deleted it, making the number useless. There was a small tinge of regret. He had been a decent lay, and unlike most men she had been with, he had no qualms with letting her dominate. But he would no longer be of use to her, especially not when he finds out who she really is.


	3. Chapter 3

The garden victim who came to life eventually did pass away in the middle of the night and the corpse was delivered late to the BAU the next day, which meant an extra autopsy and round of paperwork amidst the other eight. This one somehow also fell on Zeller’s shoulders after he’d already taken care of two victims over the day. Three autopsies in a day wasn't usually too bad, but these ones took extra long due to the confiscation of the fungi; not to mention the delicate removal process of those that had grown internally.

It was nearing the end of the work day and he could just barely keep his eyes open as he was filling out yet another death certificate, nursing himself with his umpteenth cup of coffee. It was bad timing to have only slept five hours the night before, but he wouldn’t have changed anything about last night. Thoughts of Sofia invaded his mind throughout the day, so did the urge to give her a call or a text. But making contact less than twenty-four hours after their encounter may be hasty. He didn’t want to seem desperate, especially since he was. Plus he hardly had time to refill his coffee with all this work to do, let alone sext.

Zeller bit the inside of his cheek when he had to write, “diabetes” in the victim’s file for the third time that day. It was only after he’d suggested that the victims’ compromised endocrine systems might point to alcoholism that Graham jumped off him and concluded that they were all diabetics. He didn’t even wait to look at the test results, his claim might as well be utter fact to him. And it turned out to be true, yes, but that was beside the point. They would have come to that same conclusion when test results indicated that, but apparently the All-Knowing Will Graham doesn’t need evidence to support his ideas before running with them. With these thoughts running through his head, Zeller pressed the pen down a little harder than necessary on the paper, emboldening his letters. He really, really didn’t like that guy.

Finally signing off on the last death certificate, he flipped the folder lid closed and leaned back in his chair, cracking his neck with a head tilt to either side. Just when he thought he would get a moment’s relaxation, he heard rapid footsteps coming in his direction and opened his eyes to see Katz entering the room in field gear, as well as second set of gear in her hands.

“Suit up,” she said, dropping his windbreaker and holster belt on the desk. “We’re pretty sure we tracked down our gardener.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling him now?” asked Zeller with a smirk as he replaced his lab coat with the jacket. “The Gardener? Very intimidating.”

“Only active serial killers who aren’t about to get arrested in five minutes get cool names.”

“True. So how’d we find him?”

“Turns out all the victims have the same pharmacist. And we’re about to visit his pharmacy.”

 

The agents and the tactical team both entered through the back entrance of the supermarket after two very startled staff members were instructed to let them in. Shoppers were equally frightened to see people in black body armor with guns coming down the aisles and ordering them to their knees. Once they approached the pharmacy area, Crawford showed the alarmed pharmacists his credentials and asked for their suspect, Eldon Stammets. Zeller scanned his eyes over the people in lab coats behind the counter as well as the shopping aisles around him for the face of their suspect, should he try to bolt.

One pharmacist lead half of the team out to the parking lot to locate Stammets’ car, while another pointed them to the man’s work station in the far corner. The laptop was still open at the desk and Zeller swooped in, opening the browser and selecting the web history. If there was anything that would nail a murderer's guilt, it would be his browser history. He didn’t have to search long, the last page visited immediately grabbed his attention.TattleCrime.com. He clicked on it.The first thing he noticed--aside from the garish web design--was the title in big red caps reading “IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE” and beneath was a picture of Graham at yesterday’s crime scene, along with a zoom-in shot of his face. Brows furrowed, Zeller skimmed the article’s contents which effectively derided the practice of criminal profiling and portrayed Graham as a demented mind the FBI was exploiting to hunt down the demented minds of killers.

As he read, the language began to sound familiar and a creeping feeling of dread started in his chest. His eyes flicked up to author’s name below the site’s title: Freddie Lounds. Of course he’d heard of the name; it belonged to the singular journalist who was the thorn in the FBI’s side. He’d never bothered to look up her or her website, though he was beginning to wish he had. Hesitantly, he hovered the cursor over the “About” text and clicked on it, navigating him to the “About the Author” page. First appeared a few paragraphs briefly accounting Freddie Lounds’ biography, and to the left of it was a white box of a loading image.The laptop was old and the internet slow, so the picture loaded in narrow strips until it finally pieced together to show…

_Sofia._

Or rather Freddie Lounds, but the woman he knew to be Sofia yesterday. The intense drop of his stomach may as well have splayed his intestines across the floor. There was no mistaking it. There on the screen was the same kinky red hair, deep-set blue eyes, high cheekbones, and distinctly-shaped lips. His hand clasped over his mouth, then clenched into a fist. Zeller fucked the Bureau’s PR enemy without even realizing it. She had lured him in with a false name and a false story, goaded him into leaking information, and then had sex with him--with him being none the wiser. And here he’d been daydreaming about her all day like a lovelorn fool. She was a fraud, and she used him to smear his own people. He couldn’t care less that she made Graham look bad, but she made the FBI look even worse for employing him.

“That fucking bitch,” he hissed into his fist.

“You find something?” asked Price, startling the other with a sudden appearance. In that same instant, Zeller hit the backspace key to return to the article about Graham.Turning the laptop to face Price, he said, “Yeah. Freddie Lounds.”

“What did that woman do now?” Price muttered, squinting at the screen. At the same time, Katz peered over the counter and asked, “Someone mention Freddie Lounds?”

“Yeah,” said Zeller with a sneer. “She wrote a smear article on your new friend. Stammets was reading it.” He lifted the laptop and propped it before her on the counter, and she examined the screen with an incredulous expression. She scoffed, “He’s barely been with us a month. Pretty damn quick to be making these harsh judgements.”

Zeller shrugged. “You know how tabloid journalists are.” Price’s shoulders fell as he made a pitiful sigh, then said, “I better let Jack know. He’s not gonna be happy.” He left them and Katz leaned in closer to the laptop, her robin eyes darting side to side as she read. Zeller watched her with his hand over his mouth, a lump forming in his throat when she clicked away from the page. He remembered that she had seen him talking to the red-headed woman yesterday. _Don’t go to the About page,_  he pleaded, as if he could will it telepathically. He didn’t even realize that he was pacing. _Just don’t go to the About page._

Her brow deepened and her eyes narrowed a moment then widened with recognition and he knew before she even turned her alarmed gaze on him that she knew. Zeller dragged the hand down his face and turned away, unwilling to face Katz’s scorn just yet. He was still trying to cope with his own. She just sighed and looked back to the screen, head shaking slightly.

Later, after the comatose woman they dug up in Stammets' car had been taken away in an ambulance, Zeller was idling outside while the rest of the team was packing up and taking off. He was trying to build up his courage to admit his transgression to Crawford, but still teetering on whether or not he should. There was no undoing the consequences, would it matter now if the person responsible stepped forward? All it would do is piss off his boss even more and make him lose most if not all the respect he had for Zeller. He may even be penalized. At the same time, his conscience was heavy and his integrity urged him to fess up. There was also the risk that Crawford could discover his involvement another way, which would be far worse for Zeller than if he admitted it himself.

When Crawford finally exited the store, there was a brief hesitation on Zeller’s part before he forced himself to approach his supervisor and say, “Jack, about Freddie Lounds…”

“Already on it,” said Crawford without stopping. “Called in for a trace on her right after I found out. Credit card transactions put her in a motel in town. A few of us are going to pay her a visit.” Zeller’s breath caught in his throat. The bitch could tattle on him. It was her job after all.

“Mind if I come with?” he asked a little too fast. Crawford turned his dark eyes onto him and Zeller smiled sheepishly. “I hardly ever get to see you yell at anyone besides us. Wouldn’t wanna miss it.” Crawford snorted, a smile touching his lips, and nodded.

“Sure. You can watch and learn.”

 

The knocking was only for dramatic effect, so naturally Zeller’s doing. They already had gotten the key to her room from the manager, which was easy enough once a few badges were flashed. Crawford, Zeller, and several other agents were outside her room and the one with the long blonde hair quietly unlocked the door. Zeller knocked thrice upon the door, which was met with a, “Who is it?” from the inside. He knocked another three times and drew a more irate, “Who is it?” from the journalist.

“Go,” mouthed Zeller with a point of his finger, and two agents barged into the room and rushed Freddie Lounds. With ease, they brought her facedown on the on the bed despite her struggling and secured her wrists with a ziptie, then sat her up to face them. Zeller strolled into the room, the same room from last night, and glared at its occupant, the same woman from last night. Freddie blew the red curls from her face and looked up at her assailants, her expression hardening when she met Zeller’s eyes. She obviously hadn’t banked on seeing him again. She averted her eyes from his, but he kept his stare on her. She was still so goddamn beautiful, even in that gawdy tie-dye blouse. He gave a quick scan of the room and said, “All clear.”

Upon cue, Crawford made his entrance and stood in front of the disgruntled journalist, looking down at her like a disappointed parent. The other agents stood by and kept watchful eyes on their unofficial suspect. Adjusting her restraints, Freddie huffed and icily stated, “I appreciate the pageantry, Agent Crawford, but you can’t arrest me for writing an article.”

“You entered a federal crime scene without permission,” said Crawford with his lecture voice.

“Escorted by a detective,” she retorted.

“Under false pretense!” Crawford snapped, just under a yell. It was truly a magnificent sight to witness the man shout at someone else. Zeller could feel how Freddie was trying to ignore his glower by keeping all her attention on Crawford. He let his eyes roam around the familiar room as his boss chastised the journalist, noting how ugly the wallpaper was--something he hadn’t entirely realized yesterday evening. Irrational anxiety rose up in him and he glanced at each of the other agents’ nondescript faces. Zeller was by no means superstitious, but somehow he feared they would be able to sense that he had been here before, as if his essence was still lingering in the room. His eyes fell on the bed next and became fixed on it, recalling how he had lied on it while she straddled his face.  He could almost still hear the echoes of her moans in his eardrums. A little extra saliva seeped into his mouth as he remembered the taste of her.

His face grimaced as he dispelled the reminiscing; all be damned if he get aroused now. Instead, he fixated on all his anger toward Freddie for what she’s done. For lying and making a fool out of him, and ultimately the FBI. For mesmerizing him and taking advantage of him so easily that he be put to shame. But most of all, for making him feel something toward her, for getting him excited for the potential between them, for making him think that he’d actually found his type in a single woman--and then revealing it all to be a fucking scheme. His jaw clenched so tight he heard something crack.

After a long pause, Crawford asked, “You got all that information from a local detective?” And just like that all the fear fled Zeller to be replaced with fear. She could rat him out right now, there was nothing stopping her. Goddammit, why didn’t he confess to Crawford before this? He was going to be outed in front of everyone now. There was another heavy moment of silence, during which Zeller flicked his glance back and forth between Crawford and Freddie. Freddie didn’t look at Zeller though, which would be a tell of its own.

“Lots of talk about your man, Graham,” she said coolly. “Not to mention the rivalry of who gets the collar. A local police detective looking for a pissing contest--” Here’s where she did glance at Zeller. “--with the FBI might have some insight.” Crawford raised his brows and said, “And evidently did.” The anxiety drained out of Zeller as relief filled his chest and he exhaled quietly, only then realizing he’d been breathing shallowly. She was pinning it all on the local detective. Why was she protecting him? Was it that she felt bad? Or perhaps she didn’t want anyone else under fire for her actions?  He was far from thanking her outright, but he did feel a certain amount of gratitude.

Crawford disclosed that he had evidence of her contaminating the Shrike’s nest in Minnesota and threatened to indict her for obstructing justice, to which she politely request that he didn’t. He leaned toward her and warned in a hushed tone, “You don’t write another word about Will Graham and I won’t have to.” With that, he turned and walked out of the room, the other agents following after. Zeller plucked his pocket knife off his belt and pulled the blade out of the hilt, then approached Freddie. The suggestiveness behind the fact that she was tied up on the bed was not lost on him, but he tried not to let his mind wander there. There was a lot that he wanted to say to her, but at the same time he didn’t want to say anything. He didn’t want to waste any more of his time on her, or make her think she was worth any more.

Leaning his knee on the bed, he reached for Freddie’s restrained wrists and placed the knife under the plastic band and, before slicing it, uttered in a guttural whisper, “You used me.” Once she was freed, Zeller left the room without another word or a look back, while she stared after him with an unreadable expression.


	4. Chapter 4

Zeller felt little inclination that morning to come forward to Crawford about his involvement in Freddie’s article after last night. Loose ends had been tied up, there was reasonable assurance that Freddie wouldn’t turn him in, and it would only hurt his cause in the end. Why should he put his head on the chopping block for one slip-up? Okay, maybe it was a fairly big fuck-up, but now he knew better. It would be erroneous to say that he never made the same mistake twice, but he was certain that this one wouldn’t be repeated. And overall, the consequences were able to be handled.  
  
That is until Price delivered the terrible news.  
  
It was only a half hour into the work day--way before Zeller or Katz had drunk enough coffee to fully wake up--when Price came storming into the lab and stopped himself before the desk his colleagues sat, then doubled over trying to catch his breath. Katz showed alarm while Zeller looked on with amusement.  
  
“What’s the matter?” asked Katz.  
  
“Came—from Jack’s office—” Price gasped and craned his neck up at them.  
  
“Hm? What is it, boy?” asked Zeller in a feign urgent tone. “Is Uncle Jack in trouble?” That got an unimpressed look from Katz, but Price didn’t even acknowledge it. His message was too important. Price straightened and said, “Stammets surfaced.” Now both Katz and Zeller were serious and wide awake. “He shot and killed a police detective outside of Freddie Lounds’ hotel.”  
  
“Holy shit,” uttered Katz.  
  
“Is she okay?” blurted Zeller without any forethought. He blinked at himself. _What the fuck?_  
__  
“She’s fine, aside from witnessing a man get shot right in front of her.” Price straightened and sighed. “It was the same detective that let her enter the crime scene the other day, the one who leaked her the information for that article.” If it was possible, Zeller’s heart might’ve stopped just then. His throat suddenly felt very narrow as he hesitantly stumbled over his words. “Did he--did he shoot the guy because of what he’d told her about Graham?” He saw Katz shoot him a look out of the corner of his eye and he tried to ignore it.  
  
“No clue,” replied Price. “Jack is heading down there right now. He told me to let you two know immediately, no time to do it himself.” Zeller nodded slowly, his eyes unfocused, stomach twisting in sickening knots. Nausea was beginning to swell up in him.  Price frowned at his colleague. “You okay, Zee? You’re looking a bit pale.”  
  
“Yeah, no, I just…” he stammered in between shuddered breaths. He brushed a hand over his brow, which was already wet with perspiration. “Actually… I’m not feeling too well. I’m gonna…” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence before he brushed passed Price and out of the room, heading down the hallway toward the restroom. He heard a pair of footsteps trailing behind him.  
  
“Zee?” said Katz. She sounded concerned instead of frustrated, thankfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“No, not really,” he murmured, right before shutting the men’s bathroom door in her face.The next half hour of his was spent dry heaving off and on in front of the toilet. No vomit came up because the sickness wasn’t physical, it was psychological. The very possibility, or even the hint of one, that he could have contributed to the murder of another law enforcement official was enough to incapacitate him.

Eventually, he did exit the bathroom and, only when Price and Katz were absent, went back into the lab to snatch up his remaining paperwork from yesterday. He closed himself inside an empty conference room and settled himself there. He couldn’t pretend in front of Price and he couldn’t bear the knowing glances from Katz. He needed to be alone. Even with the solitude, it was difficult to concentrate when guilty thoughts intruded his mind every thirty seconds.

Other thoughts that permeated his head were concern over Freddie. He knew he shouldn’t care about that deceitful witch, but a man getting shot point blank is something no one should have to witness. He couldn’t help but wonder how she was handling it. Then, he remembered he had her phone number. He hadn’t intending on contacting her again after the truth came to light, but maybe he ought to now. Just to ease his mind of one less worry. He pulled out his phone and located the contact still labeled with Freddie’s alias “Sofia.” After selecting it, he held the phone to his ear and waited for the dial tone.

Instead, what he got was an out of service message. His fingers clenched around his phone hard, knuckles whitening. He had to resist the strong urge to throw the phone across the room. “Of fucking course she would,” he hissed to himself. Why the hell should he be surprised? Several minutes later, he calmed down and returned to his paperwork. At least after that there was no more worrying about Miss Lounds from him.

At some point, he did need to get a coffee refill and of course when he walked into the break room, Katz would be right there. He stopped short of the threshold with the instinct to retreat, but by that time she’d seen him and he decided to just trudge forward regardless. She looked solemnly at him as she stirred a plastic stick in her coffee, leaning back against the counter as Zeller refilled his cup from the dispenser on the adjacent counter. The silence hung in the air for a moment until Katz broke it with, “You feeling better?”

“Somewhat,” he murmured back, taking a sip from his black coffee.

“Maybe you should take the rest of the day off?”

“Don’t think I’d do any better at home.” Another beat of silence. With a sigh, Katz set down her cup beside her and looked at her partner straight in the eye, even if he wouldn’t return it. “More details came in,” she started. “Stammets didn’t kill the detective because of his involvement. Apparently he’d gotten fired for letting Freddie on the crime scene and he went to confront her, then Stammets appeared at the same time and took him out. It was an unlucky coincidence.” Zeller pondered this with eyes downcast, pursing his lips.

“Which means it wasn’t your fault,” insisted Katz. A wan smile touched his taut lips and he shook his head sadly.

“No. It still is.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because he got all the blame for Lounds’ article. If I would’ve sucked up my pride and come forward to Jack, he wouldn’t have gotten fired. And then he wouldn’t have been at Lounds’ hotel.” Setting down his coffee, he huffed and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands. “Hell, if I just hadn’t done any of it, didn’t spill my big fucking mouth to that journalist, none of this would’ve happened!”

Katz’s expression was a mix of concern and frustration. She shook her head and stepped toward her friend. “You couldn’t have known, Zee. You didn’t know that Freddie was who she was. And you couldn’t possibly have known that she would write that bullshit article, much less that it would lead to this. If anything, you’re just barely an indirect link to the detective’s death; you can’t tear yourself up for that.”

He scoffed quietly. “Still am.” Crossing his arms, he stared down and chewed on his lip. “A butterfly can flap its wings on hemisphere and that can lead to a hurricane on the other. The butterfly is still partly responsible. And mine wasn’t even the flap of a butterfly’s wings, I opened up about confidential information of the FBI to a complete stranger. It was a bad move to start with, and it only got worse from there.” Katz frowned and stared off, drinking her coffee in silence again. She knew how stubborn Zeller was, even when what he was so obstinate about didn’t work in his favor.

“Please don’t tell Jack,” he said quietly.

“Of course not.” She sighed. “You know I wouldn’t do that… though I was sorta hoping you would.”

“I had been planning to today,” he lied. “But I can’t after this. Jack wouldn’t just be pissed at me, he’d be mortified.”

“Might lighten your conscience a bit.”

“Yeah, and it might lighten me of a job, too. If not that, then all of the respect from that man. I can’t do that to him.” This was somewhat of a cop out since Zeller was primarily looking out for himself, but it was true that it would kill him to disappoint Crawford so badly. Katz decided not to push it. She understood his perspective, and she too wouldn’t want to risk losing her friend as a colleague.

“What was his name?” asked Zeller. She looked at him again. “The detective’s.”

“Raymond Pascal,” she replied quietly. He let out a slow sigh.

“ _Raymond Pascal._ ”

 

The news that Eldon Stammets had been taken into custody later that day came only as mildly reassuring news to Zeller once he also heard that it was Will Graham who took him down in yet another display of guns blazing heroics. And once again, he gets all the credit. Zeller had a lot of pent up frustration and would love nothing more than to take it out on that man. However, he’d probably get a dozen bullets in his torso before his fist made contact with the mug of that trigger happy freak.

That night provided him little rest. He tossed and turned for the first couple hours, then made the mistake of looking up Raymond Pascal and reading the articles about his murder and others of commemoration. The detective had only been forty-two and left behind a wife and two children, ages nine and twelve. Forget about sleeping soundly after that. Another few hours of wrestling with his thoughts on the bed until he simply passed out from exhaustion just before five a.m., only to be woken up two hours later at seven. Zeller was in a sour mood all the rest of the day, avoiding talking to people and being terse on the occasions he did. Price and Katz did well to avoid him that day.

Eventually, he knew, he would get over what happened--or at least not be so affected by it--but eventually wasn't happening fast enough. Along with the exhaustion, frustration and intrusive thoughts were dampening the quality of his work. It would come to the attention of Crawford if he kept having subpar days like this. Halfway through the afternoon, his thoughts started ruminating around Freddie Lounds. She was the _real_ culprit here. And just like him, she had gotten off scot-free. Whether he deserved to was up for debate, but she definitely did not.  His involvement had been entirely by accident, while hers was voluntary and deceptive. If anyone should be wracked with guilt right now, it should be _her_ , but he had a feeling she had a very high threshold for shame. If so, someone ought to bring it down. That’s when he decided on it.

 

Just as the rest of his luck has been the past few days, so was Zeller’s luck with this. Freddie Lounds wasn’t at her apartment. He’d made sure she wasn’t just avoiding him when he pressed his ear to the door and detected no activity from inside. Instead of going home and trying again another time like a normal person, he decided to sit in his car and wait till she returned home. He was parked at a far corner of the lot so he would have eyes on the rest of it, including the entrance to the building. Zeller acknowledged that this was a pretty creepy thing to do--especially when it hit the one hour mark that he’d been waiting--but that didn’t deter him. He needed to confront her.

Finally after a another quarter hour and far after sundown, a purple Prius pulled into the lot and out came a woman with a mess of curly crimson hair atop her head carrying a messenger bag. Zeller had been smoking a cigarette and, with a swear of alarm, quickly tossed it out of the window before letting himself out of his Subaru. He tried waving the cigarette smell off him as he crossed the lot, but then realized that he shouldn’t care and stopped. As she was going up the walkway to the entrance, Freddie looked over at him and didn’t change her pace at all. She just smiled coolly and faced forward again.

“Agent Zeller,” she crooned. “A dubious surprise. How did you find out where I live?”

“I’m FBI,” he stated simply. “I have avenues.” She hummed thoughtfully while holding the door for him.

“Breaking code of conduct for me again? I’m very flattered. Nonetheless, you really shouldn’t have.” They started scaling the stairs to the second floor, Zeller behind Freddie. He tried to ignore her curvy ass swaying in front of him with each step.

“I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me.”

“Naturally. Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Just about fifteen minutes,” he lied. “So how do you feel about the fact that what we did lead to Detective Ray Pascal’s death?”

“Is that how you interpret it?”

“You gotta admit if you hadn’t written that article then Eldon Stammets wouldn’t have seen it, thus wouldn’t have shot Detective Pascal right in front of you.”

Freddie retrieved her keys and fit one into her apartment’s doorknob. “And if you hadn’t told me about Will Graham then I wouldn’t have written the article, and if Will Graham hadn’t joined your force then you wouldn’t have told me about him, and if Mommy didn’t take away that toy of yours when you were a kid then you wouldn’t be the person you are today.” Twisting the knob unlocked, she let herself inside and left the door open. Zeller paused at the entryway, then stepped inside when he concluded that was her way of inviting him in.

“You can keep thinking like that till you drive yourself nuts, Zeller,” she continued as she dropped her messenger bag by her desk, then crossed the living room toward the kitchen. “But it won’t change the fact that it happened the way it happened.” Her flat was inhumanly neat, there was very little clutter from his vantage point. Except for her desk that was pressed to the wall, papers strewn over it and newspaper clippings taped to the wall. To the right of that was a burgundy leather couch with an adjacent teal leather sofa and a glass coffee table in front of them. Other than her desk, the place looked barely lived in--a shell of a home. Across the living room there was a hall which he presumed lead to a bedroom and a bathroom. The kitchen was just past the hall sectioned off by a wall.

“Doesn’t change the fact that what you did was wrong,” said Zeller, approaching the desk and peering at the newspaper clippings on the wall. A few were of the Chesapeake Ripper, a couple of the Minnesota Shrike, and another murder of which he was unfamiliar. Her wallpaper was even uglier than the one at that motel.

“What I was doing was my job,” called Freddie from the kitchen. There was the opening and shutting of cupboards and glasses clinking. “Which is more than I can say for you. I have to take advantage of loose lips when I can.”

“Even if it means hurting people?” He turned to project his voice toward her location. “Look, just because I don’t particularly care for Will Graham doesn’t mean he deserved being publicly shamed.” That part wasn’t exactly honest, but it still made a valid point.

“I was just telling the truth as you and I see it. Will Graham is an unreliable and probably unstable person and doesn’t belong in the FBI.” Zeller couldn’t disagree with that. Freddie came out of the kitchen with two wine glasses partway filled with white wine and handed one to Zeller, who tentatively accepted and sat down on the couch. He held the glass up and looked at the liquid from below to detect any suspicious content floating in it.

“Please,” said Freddie dully, crossing one leg over the other as she sat down. She had on dark tights under her zebra print pencil skirt, a puce long sleeve shirt with a scarf-like collar above that. “I don’t have to drug you to sleep with you.” He gave her a dirty look, then took a reluctant sip. Zeller usually didn’t care for wine, but at least it wasn’t red wine. White was okay.

“So what about Ray Pascal? How do you justify that?”

“You wanna know who I blame for Detective Pascal’s death?” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “I blame Eldon Stammets. He put the bullet in Pascal’s head, the bullet is what killed him, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But he was provoked by your article,” Zeller insisted, each word spoken deliberately, almost baring his teeth.

“You can’t blame me that a killer has good taste in reading.” His scoff was very loud and her eyebrow twitched in response.

“I don’t know. If I were you, I would feel some sense of responsibility.”

“And that’s why you’re not me,” she replied curtly. Leaning forward, she set down her glass and looked intently at Zeller. “Look, Agent Zeller, if you really think you’re so important that you should be responsible for every twist of fate that might stem from your actions, have fun with that. But your guilt is your problem. _Don’t try to make it mine_.” He stared at her silently for a moment before averting his eyes and bringing the wine glass up to his nose, then pausing.

“I suppose that’s basically what I’ve been trying to do. Redirecting the blame so I don’t have to have it all to myself.” He took a sip and swished it around his mouth, contemplating the taste as well as his thoughts.

“You don’t have to,” Freddie said matter-of-factly. “You and I couldn’t have possibly foreseen what would happen. Obviously, if we could, we would have done things differently. But that’s not the case. So no use tearing our hair out about it.” He hated how right she was and how logical she was about it, too.

“Why did you lie to Jack?” he asked quietly. Freddie frowned. He looked up at her and saw she didn’t know what he meant. “You told him that you got all that info from the detective. Why did you lie? Why didn’t you turn me in?”

Her lips pursed and she reached for her glass to take a quick swig. After swallowing, she sighed and looked at him with an impish smirk. “Well, you made me come twice the other night, so I thought I’d return a favor.” He’d been taking another sip when she said that and snorted right into the glass, spraying himself with the wine. Her brows rose as her smile widened.

“Well," he laughed, wiping his mouth and then setting the glass on the table. He had not been prepared for that answer. He slapped his hands on his knees and sighed, then shot her a suspicious look. “You sure it wasn’t for blackmail?” She hummed and adjusted her seating, then said, “Now that you mention it… yeah, I suppose it could double as that.” He snorted softly and looked over at the window, translucent white sheet letting a sheen of light in and framed by dark green curtains. She did have nice curtains, he’d give her that.

“Probably should’ve,” he mused. “Then the detective might’ve not gotten fired. And he wouldn’t have confronted you at your motel.”

“You gotta stop thinking like that.” Her voice was softer.

“I can’t.” He sighed and rubbed his face with both his hands. “I know I shouldn’t. It doesn’t help anything, but I can’t stop.” They shared a moment of silence before Freddie stood up and stepped over to Zeller, then put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, at first wary, then not as she placed her knees on either side of him and sat on his lap.

“Maybe I can help you,” she said as she took his face in her hands and kissed him, deeply. Zeller was still for a couple seconds and first it was his lips that moved with hers, then his eyes closed, then his arms wrapped around her waist. It was then that he realized what he had known all along: that this is what he needed, that this is what he came here for. It had always been at the back of his mind and only came to the front at that time. If there were any protesting thoughts, they were way in the back and too quiet to be heard over the sizzle of desire he had for her.

Lips still as soft, body still as tight, hair just as perfect as the other night. She raked her nails through his hair, sending shivers down his back as he pulled her closer, enveloping her mouth in his. She pressed her pelvis down in his lap just as good as she did that night so already he was sprouting an erection, his manhood reaching desperately for the one he craved. Securing her knees around his hips, he rose from the couch and carried her over to the hall while she busied herself kissing his neck. He opened the first door on the right.

“That’s the bathroom,” she said.

“Oh.” He shut it and then moved to the next door down the hall.

“There you go,” she affirmed.

“Okay, good.”


	5. Chapter 5

There was something different about sex with Freddie. In most other encounters with women, it was obvious that Zeller was in control, that he was the one fucking the other. But here, it almost didn’t feel like he was penetrating Freddie, but more that she was pulling him inside. Wrapping herself around him each time he pushed in and taking hold of him, each retreat feeling like a narrow slip from her grasp—only to be drawn back in again and again. Even when he was on top, he felt like more of him was being engulfed by her, every thrust sinking him deeper into her warm wet enclosure until he was trapped.

And so he was. There was no way out. Her slick fleshy walls pressed on him from all directions, keeping him stationary. He tried squirming, but the tissue—however soft—gave little way for motion. He could barely breathe, the tunnel allowed little room for air and the air he did receive was stifling and sweltering. The implausibility of the situation was lost on him as panic took over. The fact that it was completely dark made this all the more terrifying, though being able to see the vagina enshrouding him probably wouldn’t improve upon that.

The walls compressed tighter around him, then released, then tighter again. He felt himself sliding down along the shaft as the orgasmic contractions pushed him further into her core. Then came the warm liquid, first seeping over his feet and legs before rising to his hips and then up his torso. It was like being dipped in a pool of warm oil. Finally, his head was submerged and he couldn’t breathe at all.

A gasp tore through Zeller’s throat and his eyes snapped open, finding themselves fixed on a ceiling that did not belong in his apartment bedroom. His head lolled to the right to see the other side of the bed was empty—not unusual—and saw a large ebony dresser past it and an even larger closet beside it—unusual. It was then that he remembered that he was in Freddie Lounds’ bedroom… because he had slept with Freddie Lounds again last night.

Sighing, he sat up and leaned back on the tufted leather headboard, then wiped the sweat from his brow. Now that it wasn’t night, he could see that her bedroom was as neat and minimally furnished as the rest of the flat. He supposed she spent so much time on the road and in hotels as she chased after her stories that she didn’t spend a whole lot of time at home. He could somewhat relate to that with his occupation, though his apartment still wasn’t nearly as clean. The bedroom wallpaper was an improvement, a solid eggplant. The bed had puce sheets and a silver duvet, which had been tossed aside during their antics last night, but was now covering his naked bottom half.

He waited for the guilt to come, and some did. This was truly an asshole move. He’d tried remedying the problem with the same action that lead to the problem in the first place: not keeping it in his pants. He’d sunk even lower than he was before. However, he couldn’t regret the action in of itself, even when he felt he should. It was just too good. _She_ was too good. Perhaps not in the moral sense, but very much in the physical sense. To his surprise, he very much enjoyed the rough way she handled him. Given all his experience, he would have thought that he preferred to be the dominant party during sex, but he much preferred to be under Freddie. Though even when he was taking her from behind last night, she still somehow seemed to have the upper hand.

“Bad dream?” Zeller’s head shot up at the voice and he saw Freddie in the doorway, electric toothbrush in hand, wearing nothing but underwear and a silk kimono robe. It wasn’t the same kimono robe as last time, this one was black with cherry blossoms on it. He couldn’t help but notice that her pink areolas were peeking out from the open lining of the robe.

“Uh,” he began, transfixed for a moment. “Don’t think so. Why?”

“You were groaning and rolling on the bed earlier.” Her words were somewhat muffled by the toothpaste in her mouth. He frowned and shook his head, saying, “I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

“Hm.” She looked thoughtfully at him before starting up the electric toothbrush and moving from the doorway. Shutting his eyes, Zeller slumped back with a sigh and covered his face with his hands. He should have left last night after they were finished, that way he could avoid the morning after exchange. But somehow she wore him out just as much if he had been on top all evening. During the short minute before passing out, he got his wish of post-coital spooning. It was far too comfortable to leave, even if he wanted to—and he didn’t.

And now he would have to face the consequences. This morning after would be substantially more awkward given the unique context, but he’d brave it like any other with charm and grace—at least as much as he could muster. He got up and got dressed in the rumpled remains of his clothes scattered across the gray carpet floor. After a hesitant sigh, he stepped out of the bedroom only to halt immediately as he spotted Freddie to his right sitting at the dining room table, hair wet and long, emitting the familiar light tapping of nails on the keyboard. It was like déjà vu.

For reasons he couldn’t place, Zeller tried making each step as quiet as possible as he approached her, while also grappling with the two options he had in front of him. A) act cool and casual, hang out in the kitchen, as if nothing happened. Or B) hug her from behind and kiss her neck, feel her up, maybe try for a morning quickie. Usually he would go with A after the first night in case it was just a one-nighter, and B would be following the second night. Now, for the first time, he was more uncertain of where he was with a woman after the second night than the first. He wanted B—he just about always wanted B—but his better sense told him A. As he closed in, the glimpse of her neck above the robe collar practically begged for his lips. He _really_ wanted B.

“Coffee’s made,” Freddie said suddenly without turning her head, which made him jolt a little.

“Alright,” Zeller croaked, realizing too late that his voice was hoarse. Clearing his throat, he walked into the kitchen and started opening cupboards in search of a mug. A it was, then. As he poured a cup, he wished that she would start a conversation so this loaded air between them could be alleviated. But of course she didn’t, she just tapped away on her laptop. He leaned back on the marble counter and sipped from a bright teal mug, thinking of what to say to break the silence.

“Writing an article about how good a specific FBI agent is in bed?” he spoke after an incredibly long moment, immediately regretting it as soon as he finished. _Seriously?_ he thought, _that’s the best you could come up with?_ Freddie didn’t even dignify that with a glance, simply rolled her eyes and pursed her lips before replying, “If anything, you should be writing that about me.”

“Aha.” He chuckled and bowed his head in concession. There was no comeback for that one. After watching her for a moment, he noticed something on the back of her neck that he had mistaken for a strand of red hair. Stepping over to inspect closer, he realized that the red was on her skin. “Is that a tattoo?”

That got a reaction. Reflexively, her hand went to cover the back of her neck and she looked up at him warily. Zeller smiled meekly and said, “Sorry, detective’s eye.” Her lip twitched and let out a sigh before she gathered her hair to one side and exposed the tattoo. It abstractly resembled a letter S, the top part was in black ink that phased into red on the bottom part. There were two curved streaks extending from the top and the bottom lines curled into a spiral within itself. It was simple yet bold.

“Neat. Is it, uh… supposed to be something or just a design?”

“A phoenix.”

“Phoenix… what is that again?”

“It’s a mythical bird that is reborn again and again by rising from the ashes of its predecessor.” Freddie let her hair down again and he straightened and hummed in interest. Looking off at nothing, her voice darkened as she said, “Herr God, Herr Lucifer. Beware, beware. Out of the ash, I rise with my red hair…” Her eyes shifted to his. “… and eat men like air.” His eyebrows rose and a slow grin stretched over his lips.

“You write that?” he asked.

“I wish,” she said, returning her voice to normal. “Sylvia Plath. _Lady Lazarus_.” Zeller hummed again as he seated himself at the table, then added, “I like Robert Frost.” And, of course, by “like” that meant he vaguely recalled appreciating one of his poems years ago. She made a small hum in reply and took a sip of her coffee before returning her attention to her laptop. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, half-hoping she would tell him to scram so he wouldn’t be left here hanging. He could leave on his own, but that would mean facing the possibility of never seeing her again. Wait, why did he want to see her again? Oh, just that she’s everything he didn’t know he wanted in a woman—besides the lies and deceit, obviously.

“Feel free to dodge the topic, if you want,” he began tentatively, tapping his two forefingers on the table, “but, uh… are you doing okay? With what you saw?” Freddie’s deep set eyes were blank as they stared at him over the rim of her mug. “Stammets taking out Pascal?” Her gaze flicked away quickly and lowered to her mug as she set it down.

“I’m doing just fine,” she said coolly, a mirthless smile touching her lips. “I’ve seen and written about scenes far more gruesome than that.”

“Yeah… but looking at a murder scene after the fact is a lot different than witnessing the murder itself. I haven’t even seen a murder in person before.” He paused in consideration. “I mean, I saw a couple people die during my medical residency, but that’s nothing in comparison either.” He thought he saw her smile stiffen a bit as she met his gaze with intent eyes, as if willing him to believe her with just her stare.

“Don’t worry about me, Agent Zeller. It was a highly unpleasant experience, but I’ve always been very resilient. I won’t be deterred from doing my job.” He searched her eyes while she spoke, as if staring long enough would allow him to see behind them and read her mind. Zeller was not particularly skilled with reading people. He took people at face value because he usually expressed himself at face value, so he expected others to as well, although that was seldom the case. Regardless, he wasn’t convinced that Freddie was quite so unfazed by the ordeal as she claimed. There was a rumor that her face got covered in blood spatter from the gunshot, but there was no consensus to its truth or falsity. As much as he wanted to know, he didn’t feel it was his place to press her on such a delicate matter.

“If you say so,” he said finally. Her smile widened a fraction as she replied, “I do.”

Silence fell between them again as they drank their respective coffees and Freddie clicked and typed at her laptop. Zeller found his eyes wandering over her mostly exposed chest, which he had to consciously avoid while they were talking. One taut nipple was entirely out while the other was just barely covered. Freddie’s breasts were on the smaller side, but perky and fit perfectly in his palms—as if they belonged there. A few hesitant beats passed before he stood from the table and moved behind the journalist’s chair, placing his hands over her shoulders. One hand brushed aside the hair covering her neck tattoo so he could lean down and kiss it. He felt her shoulders tense, possibly in protest, but she did nothing to stop him.

Now he was enacting the unspoken third option: A and _then_ B. Squeezing her shoulders, he brought his lips to the nape of her neck and pressed there, feeling her heartbeat lightly fluttering under his touch. The fingers of one hand slid over her collar bone and down her chest till they found themselves around her breast, clutching it firmly. Her tension was released with a sigh and she slumped back into her chair, allowing the agent’s indulgence. He made deliberate kisses with tongue and a trace of teeth up her neck while one hand massaged her shoulder and the other groped her breast.

“Do you know just how irresistible you are?” he murmured against her ear before giving her lobe a gentle nibble. Freddie hummed, trying to subdue the shivers being roused by his scratchy stubble grazing her skin. It was irritatingly pleasurable, much like the callused thumb rubbing on her sensitive nipple.

“Yes,” she replied with a smug smile. “But I have to get ready. I have an interview later.”

“That can wait a little bit, can’t it?” The one hand moved from the shoulder and reached around to her abdomen, then glided down her pelvis. Just as the fingers were dipping under her briefs, her hand clasped over his wrist.

“It could,” she said, turning to look at him with a dull expression, “but it won’t.” With that she pulled his hand away and stood from her chair, making Zeller back off. He watched disappointedly as she straightened her robe and walked off toward the bathroom, at a loss for what she meant. She seemed stern though, so he decided not to pursue it further. It took a minute for his excitement to abate. He knew he would have to rub one out later. Meanwhile, he gathered their two mugs from the table and washed them in the sink. His mother had taught him that he could be as messy as he wanted at his place, but never to leave a mess at another’s house. He dried the mugs with a plush navy towel and put them away in the cupboard, then stood there idly. The hissing sound of hair spray came from the bathroom recurrently, then ceased just as it was getting to be too much.

Zeller supposed now was as good a time as ever to take his leave. He could make things more awkward by going to the bathroom to tell her goodbye and have it returned apathetically; or even ask for her phone number and be rejected and/or given another fake number. Instead, he walked over to her desk and tracked down a scrap of paper and a pen, then wrote his name and cell number down. It was no mystery to either of them that he wanted to see her again, but it was on her part, so he would leave it up to her without pressuring it. If they were to keep in contact, it should be on mutual grounds.

After placing the paper on her laptop, he put on his shoes and his jacket and let himself out of the apartment. It was the weekend, so he could go straight home and relieve himself—that is unless he had the misfortune of being called in on the ride home. He wouldn’t. And while this morning had been strange, he had hope that he’d left a good enough impression on Freddie that she would call him within a week or two.

She wouldn’t.


End file.
